The Scottish songs - National Library of Scotland

389
O' the French to be fu' o" the flesh o",
I too r the ranks shall appear.
His waistcoat-pouch fiU'd he wi' pouther,
And bang'd down his rusty auld gun ;
His bullets he pat in the other,
That he for the purpose had run.
Then humpled he out in a hurry.
While Janet his courage bewails,
And cried out, Dear Symon, be wary
And teuchly she hung by his tails.
Let be wi' your kindness, cried Symon,
Nor vex me wi' tears and your cares
For, now to be ruled by a woman,
Nae laurels shall crown my grey hairs.
Then hear me, quo Janet, I pray thee,
ril tend thee, love, livin' or deed,
And if thou should fa', I'll dee wi' thee,
Or tie up thy wounds if thou bleed.
Quo Janet, O, keep frae the riot I
Last nicht, man, I dreamt ye was deid
This aught days I tentit a pyot
Sit chatt'rin' upon the house-heid.
As yesterday, workin' my stockin',
And you wi' the sheep on the hill,
A muckle black corbie sat croaking
I kend it forebodit some ill.
Hout, cheer up, dear Janet, be hearty
For, ere the neist sun may gae down,
Wha kens but I'll shoot Bonaparte,
And end my auld days in renown.
Syne off in a hurry he sturapled,
Wi' bullets, and pouther, and gun ;
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